


Bread

by redcurlzbychoice



Series: Supper Symbolism [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: But Definitely Food Sensuousness, Declarations Of Love, Established Relationship, Fluff, Food as a Metaphor for Love, Friendship/Love, Ineffable Deliciousness, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, More than 300 kinds of bread, No plot no porn, Yeah I like bread
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-09
Updated: 2020-04-09
Packaged: 2021-03-01 17:34:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 782
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23550877
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redcurlzbychoice/pseuds/redcurlzbychoice
Summary: Crowley doesn‘t eat much, but over the years he has developed a taste for bread.He has preferences, though..
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Supper Symbolism [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1695001
Comments: 4
Kudos: 24





	Bread

**Author's Note:**

> I woke up with this in mind. Today is Maundy Thursday.  
> Coincidence? Ineffable inspiration? Make of it whatever you like.  
> (Well, one thing’s for sure: I like bread, definitely.)
> 
> It has a companion piece now: „Wine“

  
  


Crowley doesn‘t eat much, but over the years he has developed a taste for bread.

Not the loaves you buy in plastic bags, mind. 

Crowley has travelled the world, offered Jesus to show him the kingdoms of the world and everything there is within. He is quite a guide. And as he‘s travelled and spent quite a good part of these travels in the company of a certain angelic gourmet, there was no way not to come to appreciate the many ways humans have come up with turning ground grains, water, and salt into a loaf of _bread_. (And sometimes yeast, but you don‘t even need that if you take enough time and rye to be transformed into sourdough by one of these everyday miracles - Crowley never ceases to be irritated how humans stare at weeping statues but are too imbecile and blind to the real wonders of everyday‘s life.)

There are counties where they pride themselves of more than 300 different kinds of bread. (Well, not exactly pride - most of the people living there take it for granted. Again, humans!)

But Crowley appreciates. And esteems. And indulges.

He has preferences, though.

There is bread like _Toast_. Soft on the outside, soft on the inside. (And even the little crust it has is too much hardness for some.)

There is bread like _Baguette_. Pure and white and delicate, with a hard crust you can dig your teeth into, that cracks at every touch when it’s fresh, but to be honest, when it’s older than a couple of hours it gets stale, first soft and then hard as a rock.

There is _Matzo_. Hard, dry, tasting of hardship and trust and endurance, lasting forever.

There are _Chapati_ , bread in it‘s most original manifestation, nothing more than flour turned into a form that won’t be blown away and baked on a hot stone or any other hot surface.

All of these are delicious enough, especially if they are served with a complimenting companion, in food or company.

And then there are the multitudes of bread from all over the world.

Bread made with yeast, bread made with sourdough, bread made from pure white wheat, bread made with rye, with spelt, with oats, with maize or corn, bread made with sifted, white flour and bread made from rough stone ground whole flour. Thin breads, thick breads, breads tiny as comfit and breads that weigh up to five pounds. Bread that‘s made from flour alone, soft on the inside, and bread with kernels tossed into the dough, making you chew on hidden treasures when you set your teeth into it.

There are even sweet breads, more resembling a loaf of cake.

There are breads with fine pores and bread with holes, big enough to hide a baker‘s boy inside, breads with soft crusts and breads with crusts hard as stone, to work your teeth on, and breads that basically consist of nothing but a crust, but that’s so very tasty to chew.

There are beads that are made within an hour and breads whose dough has to ripen for days, but which also will stay juicy and fresh for a whole week.

Breads that taste only of the pure flavours of flour and salt, tasting like heaven, rotten breads that taste like hell, and breads with herbs and spices and oils, tasting of the world.

For Crowley, Aziraphale is bread.

Seemingly white and soft on the outside, but beware! There is a crust that will break your teeth if you are not careful.

Fine and delicate on the inside, but with holes big enough to hide a true bastard in.

For Crowley, Aziraphale is bread which still hides new flavours and spices, which still has undiscovered ingredients to dwell upon.

A bread whose dough has lingered for millennia, riping and developing, slowly baked at low temperature for nearly as long, with the heat at the end turned up to hellfire, and it still came out with hardly a scorch.

For Crowley, Aziraphale is his bread.

Aziraphale is bread Crowley has come to need like a human needs bread and air and water.

Aziraphale is bread that will never go stale, that will never diminish, that will satiate and saturate him with a single crumb. Bread that brings back life. Bread that is life itself.

Crowley, never much of an eater, has come to feast on bread alone.

And Aziraphale does and will nourish him with delight, feeding him at their very own banquet with words and smiles and touch, until they are satisfied for the day, for any given day in God‘s creation.

Until that mountain is worn down by a little bird‘s beak.

And beyond.

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos forever to the great Terry Pratchett and the wisdom of Small Gods.


End file.
